Beirut - An Explosive Thriller (8 page)

Lynch
wondered how Dubois had known about Raymond Freij’s odd habit of
writing out his enemies’ death warrants with a quill pen on
vellum.

‘
This isn’t
conclusive,’ said Dubois, waving the paper at Lynch.

‘
Isn’t it? I
suppose the two thugs from Freij’s One Lebanon militia who entered
Stokes’ flat didn’t steal the key to his front door from his dead
body then, did they?’

A dip of
Dubois’ head acknowledged the point. ‘And yet Michel Freij would
surely not link himself to the crime by leaving a
billet-doux
behind.’

‘
His father
did. Freij is probably more powerful than his father. And arrogant.
He’s virtually untouchable in Lebanon and he knows it.’

Channing’s
gaze flicked round the room, taking the temperature. His hands
layered in front of him, catlike, he turned to Dubois. ‘We
have
to be reasonable.
We can’t
surely
start intercepting international shipping on the basis of
some Hamburger whore’s sad luck story and mount a major operation
against international terrorism because an Arab businessman buys a
yacht with a bit of hooky cash? We need a
deal
more evidence than this before
we can justify allocating resources.’

Lynch glanced
sourly at Channing.
Your bloody minister’s
pulling your strings there, Brian.
He
pushed back his chair and wandered to the window, the movement
electrifying the room.

‘
The trouble
is, it isn’t just any old Arab businessman, is it? It’s Michel
bloody Freij and he killed Stokes because he was pushed about that
money transfer. Freij is in Berlin right now. He has a meeting at
the Landsee. It’s a golf club, right?’

‘
Ja. Hoffmann
is known to be a member.’ Schmidt answered.

Lynch turned,
framed darkly against the dull daylight behind him. ‘So let’s just
conjecture Michel Freij is meeting with Hoffmann at his golf club.
Hoffmann the bankrupt who has just come into eighty million dollars
in the nick of time and straight away paid half of it over to a
known arms dealer. The same Hoffmann whose daughter says he’s
selling bombs to Arabs?’

‘
And what
arms are we talking about here, precisely?’ Channing challenged.
‘Conventional? Chemical? What is this shipment that’s worth the
price of two superyachts?’

The viscous
voice seeped into the room again as Dubois placed his hand on the
small pile of papers in front of him and leaned forwards. ‘Mr
Channing is perfectly right in this. We know too little about this
affair. But I would suggest there is enough here for us to
investigate. We must place Hoffmann under surveillance. Meier, too.
We need to find what, if any, weapons were sold, on what basis and
to whom. We also have to substantiate this story of a luxury yacht
being used to transfer them. This is an ideal operation for
European Joint Intelligence as it touches so many of our
stakeholders. Surveillance will be handled by the
Bundesnachrichtendienst
who would oversee the domestic service, the
Bundesamt für
Verfassungsschutz
. Does this work for you,
Herr Schmidt?’

Schmidt
nodded, his head lowered. Lynch’s lips tightened.
Jesus, would ye look at him? He’s only fucking
delighted.

Dubois
continued to deliver his judgement. ‘Mr Jefferson, could British
customs coordinate with our European partners in the marine search
for the boat and lead the liaison with the International Marine
Organisation? I think this is urgent. Ms Durand and her digital
intelligence team will work closely with Mr Lynch in Beirut on
this. I would like to prioritise an assessment of the security
dangers posed by any plan to import arms into Lebanon – and
particularly why a respected Lebanese defence company with known
American affiliations would want to become involved in the black
market for weapons. Brian, as Mr Lynch is already with us here in
Europe, perhaps he might care to coordinate our efforts to discover
precisely what has happened at Luxe Marine? We are, as you know,
very stretched for resources.’

You wily old
Froggie bugger, Lynch marvelled, you were going to do this all
along. It was all mapped out ages before I came into this room.
You’ve given gifts to everyone and Channing’s outgunned.

‘
Agreed,’
said Channing, a politician conceding the battle. Lynch had worked
for Channing for years, knew the man well and had rarely seen him
politically bettered. This one went to Dubois. Lynch shook his
head. The politics of intelligence had always revolted him. He
relished Channing’s brittle smile.

Channing
sighed. ‘Well, that’s settled. It will be at least good to have
some professional help for Mr Lynch when he gets back to
Beirut.’

Brian
Channing had just let his pain show and Lynch’s black Irish heart
sang for joy.

Duggan sat
staring from the window, a lonely figure picked out in the dull
daylight. Lynch closed the door behind him and sipped his whisky.
Yates had fixed him a second on his way upstairs to meet the
customs man after the EJIC meeting had broken up and the guests had
left the safe house.

‘
So you’re
the MI6 man on the case?’

‘
So they tell
me. What was it you were doing in Hamburg again?’

Duggan turned
to regard Lynch. ‘Isn’t that in my file? A drugs bust, went wrong
and I copped a bullet in my shoulder. I was recuperating for a
couple of days before I flew back.’

‘
Did you
believe her story?’

‘
Not at
first, it seemed pretty far-fetched to be honest.’ Duggan stood and
peered out of the window. ‘But there was no doubt she was scared. I
thought she was safe enough in the hotel, took a trip to the Luxe
boatyard to have a look myself. My mistake. They took
her.’

‘
Who’s
“they”?’

Duggan
grimaced. ‘Meier’s people. Where can I get one of
those?’

‘
Hang on,’
said Lynch. He opened the door and called down to Yates. He grinned
at Duggan. ‘There’s a bloke makes them here. Very civilised, I must
say.’

The big man
sat down again at the window, his hands clenched in his lap. Lynch
pulled a chair over to join him. ‘What did you find at the
boatyard?’

‘
The men were on strike. They hadn’t been paid in months. This
last refit was meant to be their big payoff. It was a Luxe 500,
rebadged the
Arabian Princess
under a Monaco flag. They fitted extra stowage
under the pool deck. The boat was floated off at night, went
upriver according to the shop steward there, guy called Jan Wolfe.
One of the workers saw it come back downriver again ten days later.
That was two days ago.’ Duggan gestured at the last car leaving the
drive to the front of the house. ‘These idiots have burned valuable
time waffling.’

‘
What was in
the arms dump? There’s nothing about it in the report you
filed.’

‘
That’s because she didn’t know anything about it. She was
listening in and heard it mentioned, that it was across the Czech
border. The
Arabian Princess
sailed up the Elbe for ten days.’ Duggan
shrugged. ‘You sort of put two and two together.’

And get
twenty, Lynch thought.

Yates poked
his head around the door. ‘Here we are, sir. Mister Channing says
it’s to be your last.’

‘
It’s not for
me, Yates. It’s for him. Tell Channing to fuck himself.’

‘
Right you
are, sir.’

Duggan took
the glass. His face was drawn. ‘Will she be all right?’

‘
Did you
sleep with her?’

Duggan froze,
the glass to his lips. He drained it and stared into the
mist.

SEVEN

Lynch pulled
off the main road into the cemetery. The rain had died back to a
light drizzle. Fat droplets slapped the car as he passed under the
Victorian gateway. The air smelt of leaves and moist earth. His
shoes crunched on the path across the green. He passed a great oak
and headed for the small group huddled around a freshly dug
grave.

He recognised
Paul Stokes’ mother, her face crushed by grief, holding onto the
arm of a strong-chinned man in a greatcoat. Dark hair, smooth
features – Stokes’ brother Charles. The earth-smell was stronger
here. The droning of the priest ended, an abrupt silence. The flat
tattoo of wet soil on wood interrupted the little sounds of
grief.

Paul in the
damp of a South London cemetery. Paul crying in the smashed remains
of his house in Jordan, Lynch helping him to his feet after
the
Mukhabarrat
raid that killed the woman he loved. Paul coming to terms
with Aisha’s death, slowly healing after Lynch arranged his
relocation to Beirut. Paul drunk, hammering his fists against
Lynch’s chest and screaming abuse. Paul in a cupboard, fat flies
crawling on his eyes.

Lynch watched
his clouded breath, felt his warm body inside his rustling jacket,
his barrier against the dank air. He offered up a silent prayer for
the gift of life. He noticed the lone watcher standing by the oak.
Crossing himself like a good Irishman, Lynch turned away from the
grave and struck out across the silvered grass to meet Michel
Freij.

Freij wore a
Crombie. Underneath the heavy jacket, his striped tie was held in
place with a golden pin that reflected like a little buttercup on
his crisp shirt. Droplets from the grass glistened on his black
shoes. He smiled and held out his hand as Lynch strode up. ‘Mr
Lynch. How pleasant to see you.’

‘
What are you
bloody doing here?’ Lynch ignored the hand.

Freij tilted
his precisely clipped chin upwards towards the little group of
people breaking up. ‘I was in London for meetings with your foreign
office. I came to pay my respects. It was,’ Freij smiled
humourlessly, ‘unfortunate Mr Stokes died in this way.’

Freij turned
to the path, stamping his feet on the asphalt to dry his shoes.
Lynch, following, kept his hands in his pockets with an effort.
‘Unfortunate? It was pretty fucking disproportionate.’

‘
Disproportionate to what, Mr Lynch? I am not aware of the
circumstances surrounding his death. But I had never considered
death to be a matter of ...’ he paused and turned to Lynch with a
half-smile, ‘proportion. It always seemed to me to be a matter
rather of finality.’

Lynch scanned
the horizon. ‘I should have you nicked right now. You’re well aware
of why he died.’

‘
That’s as may be, Mr Lynch. But I am unaware of
how
he
died.’

‘
He—’

Freij held up
his hand. ‘Please, I’d rather not know. You assaulted my secretary
and security guard on an assumption, Mr Lynch, which you cannot
prove. You have a specious motivation, Mr Stokes’ interview with
me. Mr Stokes was not respectful, I had him removed from my office.
That is scarcely a motivation to murder.’

Lynch halted.
‘You cheeky fucker. Your thugs were all over Stokes’
apartment.’

‘
You shot one
of them, Mr Lynch. They were overzealous and have been reprimanded.
What consequences have you faced for the shooting
precisely?’

‘
So what
about the note on Stokes’ body? The Freij family
trademark?’

‘
Mr Lynch,’
Freij frowned and arched his hand across his temples. ‘Please
credit me with at least a basic level of intelligence and believe
that if I were to embark on a series of murders, I would not
scatter them with clues that directly implicated me.’

‘
Why not?
Your father did.’ Lynch rounded on Freij, his hand freed from the
voluntary constraint of his coat. ‘You can well afford to drop the
act, Michel. Your whole fucking family is steeped in blood and
you’ve killed more than most men could even imagine.’

Freij’s eyes
narrowed. ‘My family has survived in Lebanon since the Crusades and
we have done so by being strong in the face of our many enemies. I
do not make a habit of snuffing out the lives of every annoying
Brit I meet, Mr Lynch,
even
when the provocation is severe.’

‘
How do you
explain the payments to Germany?’

Freij paused
and gazed obliquely at Lynch. ‘I do not propose to explain them.
There is no reason why I should be called to do so. It is not
illegal to transfer money under Lebanese law, Mr Lynch. My lawyers
inform me that it is similarly not illegal to transfer money into a
German company. And it is most certainly not illegal to buy a
luxury yacht. My partner Selim and I have worked very hard, Mr
Lynch. We are successful men and we believe we deserve to enjoy the
fruits of our success. Luxe Marine makes very good yachts
indeed.’

Lynch
struggled to keep his face neutral and mask his growing
confusion.

Freij offered
a silver cigarette case. ‘Do you smoke, Mr Lynch?’

‘
I gave up.’
He felt the little adrenaline kick, the desire to take one and give
in to the momentary urge.